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<title>i never needed anyone like i'm needin' you right now by mikhailos</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25193218">i never needed anyone like i'm needin' you right now</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikhailos/pseuds/mikhailos'>mikhailos</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Shameless (US)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Fluff, M/M, Mickey Milkovich Loves Ian Gallagher</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 08:56:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>653</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25193218</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikhailos/pseuds/mikhailos</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"That's what kept me goin' in the joint. The beach. Us."</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Mickey imagines post-prison life with Ian.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>31</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>i never needed anyone like i'm needin' you right now</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Set between S6 &amp; S7, post Ian's visit with Svetlana. Thank you to <a href="http://archiveofourown.com/users/lilbitalexis">lilbitalexis</a> for beta'ing!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Mickey’s laying in bed — well, as much as you can call a one-inch mat  a bed — staring at the ceiling. It’s another sleepless night in the cell, no beer or fifths of Jack to quiet his mind and drag him to sleep. He turns on his side to face the cell wall, looking at the tally marks etched there. Runs his fingers over the uneven scratches — over a year since he got thrown in the joint, they tell him. Over a year without Ian. Mickey feels like part of him should resent Ian for being the reason he got locked up in the first place. But it’s not Ian’s fault — not really. It was Sammi and her crazy ass, calling the MPs on Ian and fucking with the rest of the Gallagher clan. If he hadn’t done something, who would have? He knows he’d do it a million times over (not that he’d admit it out loud) if it meant keeping Ian safe.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Ian. Ian, Ian, Ian. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It echoes loudly in Mickey’s mind, almost like a mantra. With a deep sigh, Mickey flops down on his back, tugging at the strap of his prison-issued tank, slowly running his fingers over the chicken-scratch of a tattoo over his heart. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ian Galager</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He thinks back to when he first got thrown in the joint, desperate to let Ian know how serious he was about him. About </span>
  <em>
    <span>them</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He needed to do something, but he knew he couldn’t tell him out loud. That’d be too gay, he couldn’t do any of that pussy, heart-on-your-sleeve shit. That wasn’t the Milkovich style. So he’d traded a couple packs of smokes for a MacGyvered tattoo needle from another guy in his block, stole a few ballpoint pens for ink, then spent that night painstakingly and permanently etching Ian’s name over his heart. It had taken the better part of two and a half hours, including the moments he had to stop and catch his breath in between letters — whether it was from the physical pain or the emotions he’d been fighting so hard to keep at bay, he couldn’t tell.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He remembers when Ian had come to visit him with Svetlana, Ian telling him that he only came because she’d paid him to. Thinks back to Ian immediately giving him shit for the misspelling of his last name, and the fond look that had followed (Mickey had caught it, even if Ian tried to hide it). He remembers asking if Ian had thought about him, remembers begging Ian to wait for him, and Ian half-heartedly agreeing, though Mickey could see right through the bullshit answer. Still, he kept up some semblance of hope that when he got out, Ian would still be there. He had to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mickey turns again on his side, curling into himself, resting his hand over his chest and running over the tattoo with his thumb. He starts imagining things he and Ian could do together when he got out, that typical date shit that they never got around to doing. He imagines him and Ian road tripping to the beach, the two of them blasting shitty 80’s power ballads on the way there. Making pit stops along the way to smoke a bowl, bang in the car, maybe sit on the hood and watch the sun set or some gay shit like that. When they made it to the beach, they’d order some fruity whatever drinks, the ones that come with those tiny umbrellas, relax on the sand. Watch the waves roll, feel sand under their feet for the first time. Just the two of them, no worries of POs or MPs on their asses, just sun and sand and </span>
  <em>
    <span>them</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Mickey smiles a bit into his pillow, the faint noise of the crashing tide and pictures of copper hair reflecting in the sun in his mind as he finally drifts off. </span>
</p><p><em><span>Ian.</span></em> <em><span>Them. Together.</span></em></p>
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